


Sherlock is a Twink

by Katastrophi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Angst, Animal Abuse, Anxiety, Blood, Body Horror, Emotional Manipulation, Homophobic Language, Homosexual Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Internet porn, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mental Scarring, Not Beta Read, Not Britpicked, Not Canon Compliant, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Ridicule, Sex, Unilock, Work In Progress, caught on tape, homophobic people, hospital resident John, past underage abuse, texture sensitivity, unconsentual videotaping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-02-21 21:57:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2483825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katastrophi/pseuds/Katastrophi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes isn't an easy man to get along with. There are reasons he doesn't have friends and only enemies. When he starts to get cozy when a certain doctor, a lot of things are finally shown the light of day. Is the Great Sherlock Holmes strong enough to handle it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crystal Ball

**Author's Note:**

> This is a project I've been shooting around in my head for a while, and I know the title is silly, but it will all make sense eventually. Feel free to message me here, in the comments, or on tumblr if you have questions :D http://holmesstuck.tumblr.com

You could hear a pin drop onto a cushion without having to strain your ears; the room was so quiet. A fretting little auburn haired female was near pacing between two samples of skin tissue, wringing her hands with every step. The room she was in smelled overly sterile and left a near chalky taste in your mouth. Molly, the girl in such a nervous disposition, could barely stand it, let alone want to be in the morgue despite her job title. Her friend though, well she says friend, seemed to rather enjoy it.

He was lean and lanky, all elbows and kneecaps, as he huddled around a lab issued microscope. His hand was tussling his deep brunet curled hair, finding the texture soothing against his fingertips. There was a deadline; an innocent man's alibi depended on this bit of evidence. 

The man's leg started to jump in suppressed anxiety and it caused Molly to speak. “Sherlock,” she swallowed around his name, trying to choose her words carefully. “how is the experiment coming? This feels just like it was in Uni for me.” 

Sherlock pulled away from the eyepiece a fraction and blinked rapidly, helping his eyes get readjusted to the room's light source. “I don't have this kind of struggle with Uni.” 

Molly furrowed her thin shaped brows at his words, a bit taken aback. She had known the Great Sherlock Holmes for near two years and he had never once called something difficult. The new resident pathologist leaned against Sherlock's work station and attempted to size him up.

“Don't do that.” 

“I-I... What?” Molly spoke from behind her hand, face reddening.

“I said that something was a struggle and now you're trying to pick me apart, which you are utter rubbish at by the way, to see if I'm troubled by something other than my work. The answer is no, I am not. I'm annoyed at how long this process takes and nothing more. Scurry along and check your tests; they should be finished.” Sherlock's words were cold as ice and the bite stung just as much as it always did. He waved his hand at her dismissively, as if shooing away a fly. The boy was a real dickhead on occasion. 

Molly frowned but did as she was told, checking over the samples she was given. A mild fury ran through her stomach as she realized how easily she backed down to him. He didn't have the right to treat her that way! Stubbornly, Molly's face heated in embarrassment and she turned to the curly haired male. “You don't... You don't have to treat me like that. Do you treat your roommates like that too?”

Sherlock looked up at the girl, his eyes glinted over in mild surprise. He didn't think she would speak to him to rest of the day after the way he acted. That drove the majority of people away. The younger of the two swivelled in his chair and looked at Molly. 

“I don't have roommates. Never have. I have lived alone since college.”

“Never?” Molly's fingers started wringing over her wrists again, trying not to lose her nerve.

“Why would I?” Sherlock's voice was deadpan, unforgiving.

“So... So you don't get lonely?” Her voice was meek, almost too light to hear.

Sherlock snorted and turned back to the microscope and his tissue samples, somewhat pleased to see that they were ready for proper observation. This was just enough proof to get the man exonerated from all charges. From the looks of it, the case was solved. Today was a good day.

–

The hospital's canteen was full of idle chatter and noises of food preparation. All of it sounded so nice to the new fourth year resident, John Watson. He rubbed at the back of his neck as he waited in line for a bit of food. He was close to his shift's end and utterly famished; the hospital pork chops smelled delicious.

After acquiring his meal, the hungry doctor searched for a table adequate enough to eat at. Looking around the room, he couldn't help but get lost in his own thoughts. Being in the canteen of the hospital always made him think of an American sitcom named Scrubs that his roommate in university was obsessed with. He sat down at a window booth with a familiar, smiling at the friendly dark haired girl he'd met the morning before. 

“Hello, Molly. How are you today?” His smile was sweet and genuine.

Molly's eyes shot up to John's figure and she gave a soft nod before returning to her salad. “Hiya, John. I'm alright, just uh, wondering about a friend.”

The doctor nodded and cut until his entree. “Somethin' I could help with?”

Molly took a bite of her salad, contemplating the question. As far as she knew, John was a very nice and friendly person. Maybe he could get along with Sherlock; it was worth a shot, right? Sherlock wasn't without his faults, but he was nice when he wanted to be. She gave a sheepish look to the resident. “Would you uh, like to meet him?”

John pulled out his mobile and checked the time, figuring it wouldn't hurt. He didn't really have anything on after work except catching up on some sleep. “Sure? It tends to be nice to know a few people when you're new to the area. Later tonight okay?”

Molly glanced at the clock on the wall opposite of them and shook her head. “Uh, I'm not really sure where he'll be actually... But if you want to, he's down in the morgue.”

John gave her a peculiar look and she flushed. “No! I mean, Sherlock's not dead! He's just working down there with me.”

The blond gave the nervous girl a grin, nodding. “Sure, I'm pretty much off my shift. We can walk down there together, yeah?”

–

“Sherlock? I've... I've got someone here I want you to meet.” Molly's voice sounded almost hollow in the cold morgue. He grunted softly in recognition but didn't look up. It was easy enough to know there was another person with her; his scent was heady but clean and sterile, as if he'd just gotten off of duty in the up stairs. There wasn't a single part of Sherlock Holmes that was going to admit that it wasn't a pleasant addition to the room.  
“'M John --” The resident started, quickly being cut off.

“John Watson, I'm assuming. Molly has spoken of you once or twice in her chatter. It's all high regards in case you're wondering.” Sherlock's voice was direct but there really wasn't much malice. Maybe he wanted to play nice for Molly; show that he isn't so desperate that she feels the need to set up “play dates” such as this.

“She's spoken of me?” John pointed at his own face, seemingly shocked.

Sherlock gave a quick nod. “Fourth year resident of the hospital despite only being 26. You've been the talk of the hospital for weeks, Dr. Watson.” 

John's face felt a bit pink and he glanced away, fiddling with his thumbs behind his back. He was impressed with Sherlock's intellect and just how... stunning he looked. Usually a face that marbled didn't see the inside of a morgue until they reached their end too young and were nothing but a pretty corpse. John blinked a few times, almost shocked at the morbidity of his own thoughts.

“So how long did you debate between the armed forces and medicine, Doctor? Or was it never a choice at all? Is that why you were... kicked out from your home? Had you not followed your deceased father's dream and your mother made you leave? Is that why you pushed into your studies so hard?”

The older male's face was stunned in utter shock. He stared at Sherlock's profile for several moments, his mouth lax. “Y-you... How? How in the hell did you know that? No one here knows that.”

“I Saw it.” Sherlock gave a quiet sniff, glancing at the new doctor once again. Molly fretted for a moment where she stood, before rushing off with the excuse of paper work. “You stand at attention and your haircut screams military, but you were never in the services. A man of your skill would be a medic, and a good one, on the front lines right now with how the quarrels overseas has become. You didn't want to be a soldier. Though, as a child you were disciplined and taught as if you were to grow up to be one.”

“That... You are brilliant. No one has ever been able to piece me together like that. Either you're just that good, or I gotta try better.” John's face was soft, marveled at the curly haired male's accuracy. 

Sherlock was taken aback by John's words but shook it off, refusing to show it. “Right. Well,” He cleared his throat, shutting his notepad. “I must be off. The name is Sherlock Holmes, and here is my number.” He'd jotted it down on a spare scrap of paper and handed it to the short doctor.

“Welcome to the area, Dr. Watson.”


	2. Broken Telephone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry this chapter took so long to get out, guys. I've been so, so sick and i also have a really really not good wisdom tooth that's been bothering me. In the last week, if I wasn't writhing in pain, I was asleep. But I appreciate all of the views I got on the first chapter, and subscribes and kudos <3 They genuinely make me feel more confident to be writing for this fandom. Thank you. Any questions or ideas? Post them in the comments or shoot me an ask at http://Holmesstuck.tumblr.com/ <3

_Give me another. SH_

_Alright, the man beside me is a bit overweight and he is reading “The Catcher in the Rye”. He looks to be in his late fifties. And he keeps clearing his throat. It's a bit annoying actually._

_Ah, you're trying to throw me off. It's a man in his late 40s, actually. His overweight disposition has aged his face due to lack of proper hydration. Must be a soda enthusiast. He is enthralled by conspiracy theories and American born. If you talk to him, he will feel as if you're judging him for the book as it was “banned” in the United States when he was a child, and has a victim complex, waiting for someone to prove him right. SH_

John looked over at the man sitting beside him, noticing the muttering and looks of mild agitation on the man's face. The resident doctor hadn't read the book himself; he wasn't sure how to start a conversation. Something in the blond just wanted to prove Sherlock wrong. He turned and gave the chubby man a warm smile. "Weather, eh? Bloody cold even by London standards."

The man's eyes narrowed and nodded cautiously. His accent was definitely American, likely from Chicago or somewhere in Michigan. "S'pose so, not really like the brochures."

John nodded, glancing down at the man's book before back at his face. "Ya enjoying a good read? Never cared to read it myself."

The man squinted, staring hard at John. It made John want to laugh; it looked like a poor man's version of Sherlock's deduction face. The bugger was right, the man was trying to find a way to seem attacked or offended. John's stop came up and he gave the heavyset man a wink. He knew he shouldn't tease people; it must of been Sherlock's asshole tendencies rubbing off. John pulled his mobile out as he walked onto the open street, heading towards his bedsit.

_You were right, completely right. One day you have got to let me pick that big brain of yours ;)_

_Oh don't be dull, John. You have the right to ask me what you please. SH_

_Do I really?! That's quite the honor, mister._

_Anyone has the right to ask as they please, just as I have the right to refuse to answer. SH_

_Berk._

The messages flew between the two men with ease. John enjoyed Sherlock's blunt yet almost innocent humor. They had stayed in contact for weeks and it always felt like it was a continuation of one long conversation, at least to John.

John made it up the steps to his meager bedsit with ease, sighing gently as the light flickered to life. Working at a hospital gave John enough income to afford a flat, but nothing quite worth anything. The doctor figured a bedsit was just as good as a flat until he could save and afford something nice.

_Your accommodations are absolutely dreadful. SH_

_How could you possibly know that? Read it in how my hair flattens on one side when I kip?_

_Don't be an idiot. You live in a bedsit because you're accustom to the... not so great in life. You feel a room is enough for now until you can reward yourself with better. SH_

_Astounding as always. I'm going to check the sit for bugs one of these days._

_you have cockroaches under the icebox. SH_

_nutter._

**–-**

John found it easy to hold a conversation with the eccentric, curly haired male. If he were to be honest with himself, he got on with Sherlock far easier than he did with mates he'd known for years. The tall boy was exceedingly brilliant, yet one of the most goofy people John had ever met. Once, Sherlock had stopped a commentary about an experiment he was doing mid-text to exclaim about how someone named “Hudders” had disorganized his sock index. What was a sock index, anyway? That particular instance had the fourth year resident in stitches of laughter for roughly ten minutes before he could continue the conversation they were having

Just as fast as the 26 year old became friends with Sherlock, it seemed like all contact had stopped. John never realized how accustomed he'd become to waking in the morning to several texts describing Sherlock's night or other random mutterings. In a way, it had felt like John had a direct connection to that marvelous brain the man decided to tote around for the public to see.

John had grown restless as the days went on, had the younger male grown bored or tired of their idle chatter? Had the doctor somehow royally pissed the brunet off? After near a week of the cold shoulder, John had even texted Sherlock to see if something was wrong. Even then, there was no answer. Soon, the thoughts drifted into a far more sinsester area. Had the boy gotten hurt? Was he laid up in a different hospital; or even the unthinkable, a shallow grave? To be frank, John didn't even know what Sherlock did for a living aside from the experiments. What had happened to Sherlock Holmes?

John stretched across the bottom bunkbed in the on-call room, glancing at his phone every now and then. He couldn't sleep, despite being awake for almost 22 hours. He wouldn't outwardly admit it to anyone, but he couldn't get Sherlock off of his mind. Had he been foolish in thinking they'd had a friendship? What did the doctor even know about the mysterious man who seemed to have disappeared off the face of the planet?

It was in that moment that John realized, he truly didn't know much of anything about Sherlock. How old was the brunet? Where did he work? Those were normal questions to ask someone of whom you want to get to know, right? Isn't that information that is usually given? Did Sherlock not trust John? The good doctor tossed on the mattress, hoping to find a decent spot to catch a few minutes of sleep; with luck he'd sleep through the end of his shift and get to go to the bedsit for a proper rest. John just had to get the curly haired man out of his mind. It wasn't normal for a bloke to think that much about another man, anyway. You shouldn't be this attached to someone that you've only known for a few weeks, it just doesn't happen.

\--

Before John could properly get comfortable there was a loud knock on the door before it was pushed open. He sat up, rubbing his eyes to adjust to the light flooding in. Molly stepped in, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.

"He-hey, John?"

The blond male swung his legs over the side of of the cot-like bed, giving her a soft smile. He hoped it calmed her a little bit. "Yeah? What's up, Molls?"

"There is a police officer here to s-see you." Her voice was meek and almost strained.

Every intoxicating notion of sleep left John's body, giving him a stone sober feeling. The blppd coursing his veins felt like ice. Was it Harry?

Before John could voice his concerns for his sister, a tall and very powerful looking woman in a smart dress suit walked in. She bypassed Molly, running her fingers through her rich curls and rather pretty hair. An air of authority wafted around her and John was almost intemidated.

"John Watson? I'm Detective Sargant Donovan." Her eyes cut to Molly. "We need to talk, in private."


	3. Immaculate Misconception

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This... this is the first time I've been able to post a chapter two days in a row before. I genuinely don't know what to say. I got some amazing comments and it seems to spur me forward. <3 I do hope everyone enjoys.

"Detective Sergeant," John was standing at attention in the middle of one of the scattered hospital break rooms. He didn't feel comfortable having a conversation in the on-call room, not wanting to deprive some other doctor or nurse the right to their well earned sleep. "you wanted to speak to me?"

The woman nodded, her curls bouncing with ease. The look on her face was bred with a very arrogant authority. John wasn't sure if he was a fan or not. She wrinkled her nose as she spoke. "Do you... Do you have any connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

The doctor was floored. Millions of thoughts were racing through his brain and he could only just bite back a stutter to save his pride. "We are acquainted and have shared conversations." Due to recent events, he just wasn't sure if he could call Sherlock a friend.

The disgust that ran over Sergeant Donovan's face wasn't very well hidden. What kind of monster was this man? Just what had John gotten himself into?

"That man..." Donovan started before really getting a grip on herself. "Sherlock Holmes is currently missing. He was working for The Yard on a case of kidnapping and well, it seems that he foolishly got himself kidnapped as well."

John bristled at the way the detective was speaking of Sherlock. John could feel his feathers ruffling and quite honestly, he didn't have that right. Something seemed off, though. She had a heavy contempt for the brunet and it didn't take Sherlock's deductive abilities to see that. He propped his hips against a light wood rounded table. "Then... Then shouldn't your detectives be out looking for one of your own rather than talking to me?"

The woman crossed her arms and scowled. "When we discovered that he was missing, we raided his flat. He is known for withholding evidence, after all. There was a note attached to a mobile, addressed to you. It seems as if he got himself kidnapped on purpose."

John felt slack jawed. Sherlock was purposefully kidnapped and he thought to leave John a note? The blond resident didn't know what to think about any of this. His fingers itched, wanting to demand to see the items in question. As if the female read his mind, Donovan pulled a manila envelope from her coat pocket and handed it over.

To sate his curiosity, John looked inside the package and found a folded paper with messy scawl on it and a black mobile. This was his connection to the elusive and seemingly dangerous man known as Sherlock Holmes; the man's personal phone and a scrap piece of notebook paper. That line of thinking made the contents in his hands feel far heavier than they should of been.

John cleared his throat. "Still, what does this have to do with me?"

Donovan shrugged noncommittally. "Seems like you've got a pet that's lost, Doctor Watson."

That angry flame flared in John's stomach again. He had to remind himself of his P's and Q's before he became the police's new chew toy for chinning a female detective. The sergeant's face seemed to soften at the sight of John's anger. The resemblance of pity in her eyes only made his nostrils flare.

"Look, ya seem like a nice fellow. I'm Sally, by the way. This case isn't open to the public yet, but after it's over, I fully suggest staying away from Sherlock Holmes." Sally's tone came off as the most peculiar mixture of concerned and bored.

The sterile atmosphere of the hospital was starting to burn the blond's lungs. He could only chalk his sudden rage and mother hen-like qualities up to lack of sleep and the mild worry of losing a friend. Regardless of how he felt though, the detective sergeant should have more respect for one of her own than that.

"And why's that? He the boogeyman or somethin'?" John could taste the venom on his tongue. No wonder Sherlock could read him like a book.

Sally's face softened even more, this time it even reached her eyes. For some reason, that just seemed to fuel his flames. "The bloke isn't normal. He's not actually on the force or anythin'. He is a friend of the DI's. Sherlock Holmes is a bloody psychopath. He doesn't get paid. He does this kind of thing to get his jollies."

John's nose scrunched up in disgust. The foul emotion wasn't towards Sherlock though... How could someone be so inconsiderate to a possible fallen comrade who never asked for pay in return? John had always been taught, even well practiced in, taking care of those who need you. To avidly ignore the possibility that someone you work with was in danger seemed like blasphemy.

Sally cleared her throat. "He doesn't have friends. The man is a right dick to anyone he talks to unless they serve a purpose, you know. Take it from someone that knows him, when this case is over you're not going to want near him. Ya can't save everyone."

The police officer's words cut through John's chest. He wasn't out to fix a broken man... Not this time, at least. He had viewed the bloke as a friend and wanted to nurture that. What was so damn wrong in thinking he had a companion to shoot the shit with?

"I'm here to heal my patients. The last I checked, Sherlock Holmes has never been on my charts." His voice was deep, commanding. Maybe the blond just had a problem with authority.

Sergeant Donovan nodded at that, the soft act of pity still in her eyes. God, it pissed John off. "Just... Don't get attached to Sherlock Holmes. He isn't worth the effort. Trust me."

John dug his heels into the dirt, alas only metaphorically. "Are we done, officer? I've got to catch the tube."

She nodded, straightening her jacket. "We've scanned through the information he gave you and nothing seems too pertinent. You're free to go."

  - -

John tried to make himself comfortable on the practically plastic bench the tube provided. He was so exhausted from expending his adrenaline in a fueled rage against Sally Donavon that he hadn't even read the note Sherlock had left. He looked around the compartment and realized that the few passengers he had to share with couldn't care less about what he was doing. He gave a humorless laugh as he remembered the over weight man from weeks ago. Karma was a twat, wasn't it?

John decided to revoke the feeling of sick irony and impatiently waited to read the contents of the letter when he reached his bedsit. It felt like forever, but the doctor had survived the walk home on sheer will alone. The need to not feel grossly attached made the man shower and make tea before he glanced at the brown envelope anymore.

"Here it goes." John rubbed his face tiredly before dumping the phone and paper onto his bed with light crinkling noises coming from the holder.

Assuming the note would explain why the phone was now in John's possession, he opted to examine it first.

_Keep this safe for me. always losing the bloody thing when on a case._

_I know you have questions, but I don't quite have the time to answer them. Nor do I really want to, but I've been told this sharing lark is a part of companionship. -SH._

John read over the first part of the letter numerous times before going on. Sherlock left a note for the police to find so they would give John his phone for safe keeping. The doctor was stunned. He couldn't quite decide if that was the most brilliant or barmy thing he'd ever heard of. Glancing over the rest of the note, he noticed it was all bullet points.

  *  _23_


  * _I enjoy bees and goats._


  * _I play the violin when thinking._


  * _Consulting Detective, only one in the world._


  * _Sometimes I don't talk for days on end._



That was the end of the note. John stared at the now wrinkled paper for near thirty minuted, flabbergasted. After not speaking to the "consulting detective", what ever the piss that was, for weeks; Sherlock decided it would be a great idea to show his idea of friendship by getting John possibly involved with a kidnapping investigation and gave him a list of near meaningless personality quirks. What in the ever loving fuck had John Watson gotten himself into that day in the morgue? Why was he smiling and on the brim of laughing about it?


	4. Initialization Sequence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit. I just started my new job on the army base and it's killing me. I've done nothing but work and sleep these last two weeks. I am SO sorry this chapter is so late! But here is a short chapter to make up for it?? o3o;;
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy it and give me lots of comments. <3 if you have any questions, leave a comment or ask me on http://holmesstuck.tumblr.com :D

The phone felt so heavy in John's hand. He wanted to search it's contents to find out just who Sherlock Holmes really was. The good doctor couldn't help from carrying around the piece of temptation in his pocket. Why, of all people, did the detective trust John Watson with his phone? What if he had secrets from the NSY or the government on there? Did Sherlock really trust him?

It had been a week since the phone fell into Dr. Watson's possession and it had become a near obsession for him. Whenever he had a moment, John would think and try to work out a password. He had even gone so far as to go through the old text messages on his own phone to see if there was anything to give it away.

In the on-call room, John rotated the mobile phone over and over in his palm, clicking the power button. A password screen popped up, asking for a four letter word. He tried his own name, feeling a small bit conceited at the thought that the man would do such a thing. It failed.

The note Sherlock had left was also nesting deep in the heart of John's pocket, having been read over countless times. This was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to the fourth year resident, and he wasn't going to let it slip away so easily. Pulling the paper free once more, John scanned over the already memorized words.

**_Not much of a code breaker, Doctor Watson._ **

The text had arrived on John's phone within an hour of him being in the on-call. The soon to be surgeon had no idea who it was from, but they had quite an acute knowledge of him. It was mildly creepy.

_Who is this?_

**_Simply an interested party, Good Doctor._ **

_Interested in what, pray tell?_

A flood of light breached the room, making John squint. A silhouette of a man in a well framed suit replaced the rays of fluorescent light in a split moment. The door shut behind the man and it gave John quite the uneasy feeling. He attempted a cough to clear the air. "Hello?"

"Good evening, Dr. Watson." The man's voice was rich and had a hint of a nasal rasp.

The resident stood up, his scrubs making a very distinctive rustling noise. He folded his arms over his chest and gave the other a bored look. "Tryin' to scare me or something?"

"Not at all, John. Sherlock seems to be quite... fond of you. I just simply had the impression that you'd be smart enough to crack a phone lock." The man's features were quite a bit more pronounced now, John's eyes trained to the darkness. He was in a deep grey fitted suit and gripping an ivory handled umbrella as if it were a knight's sword.

John bristled at the man's words but there wasn't much to be said. He couldn't open the phone, and he was scared of too many failed attempts, not wanting to lock either of them out of the device. He held onto the phone, not pulling it free from his pocket. "And what is it to you? Who are you?"

"As I've said before, just an interested party. As for Sherlock, he is quite dear to me. He very much so is the blunt instrument this country needs to eradicate the filth from this great nation. You should be able to respect that, Doctor Watson. You are rather...Queen and Country, as they say." The umbrella rhythmically clicked against the tile and it made John want to twitch.

There was a strong sense of distrust radiating off of the doctor. He hated how this guy spoke of Sherlock like he was just the knight on a chessboard. After a moment of deliberate silence, he recalled how Detective Sergeant Donovan had spoken of the curly haired man and his shoulders tightened. Was there anyone who didn't see Sherlock Holmes as a tool or nuisance?

John hissed under his breath and crossed his arms, trying to keep the anger from his voice. "And what exactly gives you that impression?"

Stilling the umbrella in his hand, the other gentleman gave a light chuckle. "Why because you haven't told a soul that you have the mobile yet you've been in a constant state of panic. It is safe to assume you are worried for Sherlock's well being but do not want to give away his secrets. Do you feel obligated?" The man picked a thread off of his sleeve. "Ah, no. Could it be that you've decided to trust the likes of Sherlock Holmes without truly knowing his character?"

John was mad enough to throw a punch at the incredibly nasal man, had he not been standing so far away. How dare he just assume their friendship and John's mannerisms. Between this creep and Sherlock, did the doctor even have a sense of free will?

A rather loud chirp erupted in the silence between them. It took John a moment to realize it had come from his own phone. Fumbling for the device, the blond man didn't seem to care that he was being rude; it made the other male smirk.

"Pressing matters, John?"

The doctor glared at the suit before opening the text he'd received. The number on the screen wasn't one that he recognized, but the message struck a cord inside John that made his blood run cold.

_Help. I'm in drastic need of medical assistance. - SH_

The air felt like it was siphoned from his lungs; John had to find a way to get to Sherlock. If no one else gave a damn about the consulting detective, he sure as hell would try. He typed a quick reply, asking the enigmatic man where he was and to stay still. Shoving passed the suited bloke, John gave a gruff acknowledgment that he had to leave.

"Do be careful, Doctor Watson. My brother does have quite a flair for the challenging problematic." That nasal voice called after the panicking doctor and it made John stop in his tracks.

This man was Sherlock's brother and he had the ability to speak so... distastefully of him? John shuddered but kept his pace up until he could sign out for an early leave at the main desk. Sprinting into the street, John got the first cab he could before checking his phone.

_Your Bedsit. Could be dangerous. - SH_


	5. Pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is so late. Do:
> 
> I had this chapter FINISHED about a week ago and went to copy it out of my writing app and my cat knocked my hand and completely erased it, all except for about three sentences. I wanted to fucking cry.
> 
> But, here it is rewritten in all its glory.
> 
> And if you were wondering, every chapter is named after a song that I think fits. 
> 
> These are the songs so far if you want to have a listen.
> 
> Crystal Ball by I See Stars  
> Broken Telephone by Structures  
> Immaculate Misconception by Motionless in White   
> Initialization Sequence by I See Stars (it's actually the CD opener, and transitions into Ten Thousand Feet.)  
> Pieces by The Bunny The Bear
> 
>  
> 
> I've noticed a lot of the people in the Fandom don't really like this kind of music so I'm quite interested to see what people think. uwu

I'm John was panting by the time he reached the door to his rather shabby and none too sterile home. Jiggling the handle, he found it unlocked and took no time to burst inside, tense and ready if someone other than his patient was in the bedsit. 

"Sherlock!?"

Sitting on the bed, the curly haired man was looking up at John. His face was a stark mask, the edges peeling away to show pain lacing his near translucent eyes. It was very clear that Sherlock, despite his pain, was trying to read the medical man's emotions and evaluating how to react. His hair had lost the majority of it's bounce and volume from overgrowth, and dirt seemed to be smudging his face and clothing as well. Sherlock Holmes looked emanciated and tiny, gripping at his stomach for all he was worth. It made him truly seem like he was only 23 and very much so still a university student. Though the proud doctor was standing before his weak frame, a glint in the man's demeanor screamed that no matter what, Sherlock Holmes will never be considered fragile.

The doctor didn't say a word once it was clear that they were alone. Questions could be answered later, when he was positive that Sherlock didn't have a fatal injury and was well on the way to rexovery. He near tripped over himself trying to make it to his own restroom for his first aid kit, nerves on high. Returning to the detective's side, John fell to his knees quite unceremoniously. He scanned Sherlock's torso over, almost gagging when he saw the blood soaking his friend's fingers. The man's hands were grimey and smeared with filth, just like the rest of him. What had these people done to him?

John felt himself take on a more serious persona as pried his patient's hand from the cut. He had to remind himself to not get too involved and emotionally driven until he was sure the younger man was on his way to recovery. He was a doctor, and what good would he be if he let Sherlock bleed out on his bed?

The wound looked superficial, but with that much blood, he just couldn't be sure. It was jagged and messy, but seemed quite juvenile to what he was expecting. Biting the bullet, John began his line of questioning. "Is uh... Is this your only wound?"

The tall male gave a curt nod. "Came up behind me, I was stupid enough to let my gaurd down."

A grunt passed John's lips. He shifted and started to soak a thick piece of gauze in antiseptic. The blond bit back the urge to coo at Sherlock as he cleaned the cut, knowing that it had to sting. There was a bit of infection starting on the edges of the injury, but John was certain that he caught it in time. The dirt and grime littering Sherlock's shirt and stomach was giving the man's skin an almost orange or unnatural auburn tone. 

Sherlock's eyes scanned over John's face. It was hard to make out exactly what the good doctor was thinking, but that studious, steady gaze and near annoyed twitch in his fingers gave the curly haired man a decent idea. He cleared his throat and winced slightly, almost shocked at how it made his stomach muscles tighten. 

"You think you could have done a better job." 

John's brow furrowed, giving him a steep crinkle in his forehead. The surgeon near had worry lines at the age of 26. His stomach felt cold. "What do you mean?"

"The knifeman, you know he was an amateur. You see his mistakes, Doctor Watson. You know you could have done a better job... you could have killed me." Sherlock's voice was just a touch too airy and happy for a man who had a fresh stab wound to the stomach.

John's nimble fingers stopped working to clean Sherlock's punctured abdomen and he locked eyes with the brunet. His breath seemed to labor as the idea ran through his conscious mind. John had. He had been analyzing the easiest way to make a kill shot. He very much so had been able to gather that he was far better and more trained with a dagger than the man who had harmed his friend. "I'm...s-sorry."

Sherlock's lips quirked into a gentle smile. "Why, John? You didn't even realize the... foul thoughts littering the back of your mind. It was more a statement of fact. The far greater man uses his skill to heal the wounded rather than to inflict it." 

A finely powdered blush found it's way onto John's cheeks. He didn't quite know how to respond so hopefully the gentle silence between them would be enough. He tried to focus on Sherlock's laceration. It was far less serious than he'd thought. "S'prolly gonna need stitches, mate." 

Sherlock hummed and John just assumed it was in acknowledgement. The older of the two let out a small sigh and gently pressed around the gash to see if any bits were swollen or if he had missed anything important when giving the boy a once over. "Why... Why didn't you go to the hospital?" 

"People congregate there. It's quite... tedious." Sherlock gave a near put on sniff at the end of his statement. Posh bastard.

John's tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth as he stared up at the dirty man. "You're serious, aren't you. God, to be a genius, you're bloody thick. You could have died if the tube ran a bit late. What if I didn't have my phone in my hand, Sherlock?"

The brunet sniffed the air a second time. "Then I suppose in my last fleeting seconds I would have mourned the fact of these ugly bedclothes being my last sight of this filthy world, Doctor Watson. That, or would you have made it just in time to hold me as I took my last breath?"

John sucked at his teeth and the damp smell of the wood in the bedsit seeped into his conscious. This place was no good for Sherlock Holmes, even if he was a right git.

"You're real lucky I've been keen on being a surgeon an' have everything I need for proper stitches right in the flat. I'd drag you to Bart's, kicking and screaming if needed. I don't need your dying breath stinkin' up my flat, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile at that. "You're a good doctor, John. Rubbish bedside manner though."

A huff passed John's lips as he rummaged through the first aid kit, hoping he had some form of a local anesthetic so the sewing didn't hurt his friend too much. It had to really suck to get stabbed and then to have to get stabbed repeatedly yet again just to make sure the wound healed properly. 

"John." 

The blond lifted his head and felt the need to keep eye contact with Sherlock. "Yes?"

"There is a proposition I think would be quite beneficiary to the both of us if you would accept." The younger of the two picked at a loose thread on John's sheet as if he was bored out of his mind. His eyes, though... his eyes were sharp enough to slay even the strongest of enemies with a single glance. 

"I don't accept any kind of proposition without first knowing the terms and conditions, Mr. Holmes." John, despite how nerve-wracking these last few hours should have been, had a slight joking quality in his voice.

"Move into my flat. The rent has been completely paid in full for upwards of two years, and I have a spare room that would accommodate your interests quite nicely, I would assume. As well as, I do believe your commute to the hospital would be quite shorter." Sherlock watched the man prep the needle, nothing short of amusement twinkling in those translucent eyes.

"I... what? Why would you offer that? I can take care of myself, you know." John didn't really know what to say so he simply spouted the first thing that made sense.

"I offered because it would, like I said, be beneficial to the both of us. Having a doctor to patch me up and to make sure I don't bleed out is quite a handy thing to have, and the flat is quite nice and in a decent part of London. You would enjoy the area far more than this bedsit, I do believe. Utilities are quite cheap as well, Doctor." Sherlock strummed his fingers against the bedding, clearly serious and waiting for a proper answer.

Despite the older of the two thinking he'd gone completely mental, John nodded, remembering those weeks that Sherlock had simply vanished from thin air. At least this way, he'd know if the other man needed help, right? 

"Yeah. Yeah, I think I will."

"Good, most of your things have already been transfered in the hopes of a good reaction." 

"...Goddamn it, Sherlock."


	6. Hello Fascination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse as to why this chapter is so late and so shitty. I'm so sorry. My work has had me working pretty much non stop and a lot of personal matters have aroused as of late. Please enjoy the story none the less. This is pretty much the tipping point of the story.
> 
> The chapter title is Hello Fascination by Breathe Carolina.

John leaned into his comfortable, almost thread bare arm chair, near melting into the fabric. He situated himself and a piping hot cup of tea while adjusting the union jack pillow just behind his hips so it would press miraculously into the curve of his back. The blond doctor was exhausted from a difficult shift at the hospital. Quite frankly, having to do all of the shopping and near tripping over his flatmate's dirty dressing gown upon entering his home didn't really help much either. John was stuck wondering when he had started acting like he was over 40 years old despite barely scraping the ripe age of 26.

It had been several months since John had been in that dirty room stitching up the great Sherlock Holmes. If he were being honest with himself, he wasn't even sure just how long it had been exactly. His brain was too tired from caffeine filled nights and adrenaline rushed work shifts to keep anything linear. Most days, the good doctor couldn't describe to you a singular day before he met the university student. 

"John," Sherlock's voice was distinct in the blond's after work haze. 

"Yes?"

"Did you pick up the milk I requested?" That voice was mocking John's fatigue. When was the last time, or any time for the record, that John had seen Sherlock sleep? Was he some kind of vampire? 

A small laugh bubbled at the base of John's throat as he pictured Sherlock in a classic Count Dracula get up. Did his bedroom house a coffin with cheesy red and black candles surrounding it? Maybe instead of blood, Sherlock drank intelligence from other people in the same room as him. Was John simply his meal ticket? Did that explain his tired eyes and sore body? It made sense, that alabaster skin and those damn near glowing eyes. Sherlock Holmes was a vampire. John almost wished he was a dentist so he had an excuse to check Sherlock for fangs. 

John shook his head. No. That was stupid. 

"John."

"Yes?"

"Milk?"

"Piss off and buy your own damn milk. I'm tired of taking care of you like some God forsaken toddler." John cut his eyes to Sherlock and wanted to almost childishly stick out his tongue. It was like an instant reminder that he was exhausted and not supposed to be laughing over blood sucking flatmates. 

John sighed and scratched the back of his head when he didn't get a reply. Sherlock must have turned back to his experiments. The curly haired man seemed to be in a pout and the rather sleepy resident doctor wasn't buying in to it. Rolling his eyes John sat back in his chair and simply ignored the moody boy. John didn't even know why he felt the need to make this an issue; he had in fact purchased the dairy product, along with some biscuits and fruit that he knew Sherlock would eat without even really thinking too much about it. He knew Sherlock didn't eat properly and the nurturing ways of the doctor tended to get the best of John.

\- -

Sherlock was stalking around the room feeling kind of out of it. He didn't now what to say or how to approach the subject. The texts on his phone were making him jumpy and he wanted to speak to the doctor who shared a flat with him. Moving closer to the resting man, Sherlock leaned over John's arm chair. 

"John." Sherlock's voice was absolute and his shoulders squared when the fourth year resident turned to look at him.

"I told you, I'm not going to let you cut my jumpers just so you can experiment on the follicles or fibers." John crossed his arms over his chest, his sigh sounding exasperated and very much so like it would belong to an overworked daycare personel.

Sherlock let his shoulders slack. "No. If I really wanted to that badly, your room does not have a sufficient lock. I need..." 

the tall university student let his voice die off and he glanced around his flatshare. His eyes grazed over John's comfortable form. "No... Nevermind. I'll do it myself. Enjoy your evening, John. I'm just going to pop out for a bit."

That was the last thing John had expected from the rather typically needy detective. He shifted in his chair, trying to examine Sherlock. His shoulders were slack and his face a blank canvas but it was most definitely… off. This was the man who regularly had bits and pieces he clipped or borrowed from Bart's in their shared refrigerator, the man who let himself get kidnapped to catch a drug lord. Why, in all certainty was Sherlock backing down on asking something from the doctor?

The sandy blond haired man watched as Sherlock grabbed for his coat, almost in awe of how the 23 year old draped it over his frame like a superhero's cape. Getting up, John smoothed his jeans down. "Sherlock…"

Fixing his lapels, Sherlock turned to his housemate. "Yes?" 

"I'll go with you, if you need me. What's going on?" John wet his bottom lip, his back pin straight. 

A faint smile crossed the brunette man's face and he turned to walk out of their front door, motioning for his friend to follow. "I… I seem to have a case tonight, John." 

"That's it? You take on cold cases at a near constant. We moved in together after you'd been stabbed. Why are you so…twitchy?" John was bouncing down the stairs after Sherlock, knowing the taller of the two was hiding something. 

Sherlock swallowed, his throat felt too dry. "My…" he coughed before walking out onto the London street. "An old acquaintance of mine has been found murdered. Something has been left for me to find." 

John's eyebrows furrowed as he watched Sherlock flag down a cab. His steps faltered butdidnt cease. "Someone… a-a murderer, is calling you out?"

"It seems that way, John. I am a detective of sorts, I'm bound to make some enemies." Holmes climbed into the taxi and told the driver where to take them as John got a grip on his thoughts.

"But how, Sherlock? You don't take credit for the majority of your cases. Sergeant Donovan told me that." John should have been considered mad as a hatter for climbing into the car after the detective. 

Sherlock's mouth formed a hard line and his fingers tapped in the door he rested against. His eyes borrowed holes into the back of the cabbie's head. "I don't know."


End file.
